"Outlanders are noted for their misplaced pride, of course," Hal commented with a mildness that was impelled by fatigue rather than civilized conditioning. "Oh are we now?" she said angrily, standing up and bending over him. "And who do you think you are, Lord Proprietor? Some humble god, perhaps? Let me tell you something, Hal Webber, I've heard about you. You know who I am? My name is Lois Bruchner. That uncouth engineer you just referred to happens to be my father." Hal was puzzled. "What on earth is the matter?" he asked. "Why are you so excited?" "You called my father uncouth." "Why get excited about that? After all--" Hal gestured weakly, trying to reason with her, "--it's only your father. I didn't say you were uncouth. Funny thing is--I like you." "Suppose I called your father names?" she demanded, her lower lip protruding belligerently. "You can call him anything you like as far as I am concerned." Lois Bruchner stood there a moment, her mouth open in astonishment. Then she sat down beside him again quietly. "That's right," she murmured, "they even educate love out of you." Hal sighed heavily, and slid away from the tree onto the rough, rocky ground. It was painful, but he was so tired. His breath came in regular, deep sighs as he went to sleep. * * * * * By the time he woke, Lois had constructed a kind of primitive lean-to shelter over him. Hal was amazed. The sheltering purpose of the structure was evident to him, and he was startled that she should have been able to design such a thing on the spur of the moment. She heard him stir and looked up from the fire she had built in front of the lean-to. "Hungry?" she asked. He was ravenous, but his muscles ached in every fibre. His wonder at her cleverness disappeared abruptly when he tried to move. He rolled over groaning and helpless. Immediately, she was at his side, pushing him back onto the bed of dry, fragrant grass she had put him on. "Now don't try to move around," she admonished. "Just a few days, and you'll be all right." "Oooo," Hal groaned. "This is awful." "There, there," she murmured solicitously. "I've made you some soup. You'll like it." "Soup," he groaned. "I want food. Good solid synthomeat. Don't you have any food?" "Solid food in your stomach so soon in this heavy gravity would kill you." She went away and returned quickly with a little cup and spoon, and proceeded to empty the container into his lax mouth a few drops at a time. After a while, he ceased his protesting. It was less painful to swallow the slop than to fight it. Very soon afterward, he lost consciousness. * * * * *